


god i hope my glasses arent smudged

by putorius



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fans & Fandom, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enjolras is a huge nerd who writes fanfiction for a book series i made up, Fandom AU, M/M, fanfiction au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-01-04 17:33:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12173532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/putorius/pseuds/putorius
Summary: Objectively, Enjolras can understand how unhealthy it is to live in a fictional world. For kids. He gets that. Like, if you say you spend all your time thinking about this other, fictional universe written for ages twelve and up, people start to look at you a little funny. They’d look at you even funnier if you told them that by “spend all your time thinking,” you really meant considering the possibility of you being in that universe - not literally, just like, how would the characters like you? Where would you fit in? Could you save the world, too? Do you get to fall in love?He knows, okay? He does. But that doesn’t stop him from imagining his final battle against the Fairy Queen of Ember as choreographed to Come On Eileen, which he stuck on repeat on his iPod.---otherwise known as the one where enjolras write fanfiction??????





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hey ao3 user putorius, shouldnt you be finishing one of the many, many fics you started? yes. but, like, this one? i wanted to write this one. lets see how it goes, yeah?  
> four corners is totally made up, but the idea is that theres, uh, four corners to this domain that all go with an element??? like the lagoon is water, hills are earth, etc, and that its all inhabited by fairies. humans only get there when fairies trick them in. none of that is super important - theres no real fairy magic in this fic - but thats the world enjolras is writing about  
> i cant decide if i want to write more about this??? but i also want to post an update for /something/ so, here!

At the beginning of the first book, Rosemary gets stuck in the fairy world because she isn’t wearing her glasses. It’s a classic trick by the fairies - some kid falls into the fairy world, they orchestrate everything so that when she wakes up, it looks an awful lot like her bedroom. If they feel safe, they’ll eat, and if you eat, you don’t leave. The charade isn’t perfect, of course - but the cracks are nothing you’d notice if you weren't looking closely, or if you had shitty vision. Say, just good enough to recognize your room, but too shitty to notice any details, like how all the notes on your bulletin board are written in Enochian instead of in English like you’d written them.

When Enjolras read that chapter as an eleven year old, he’d gripped the pages so hard the spine twisted and cracked. He’d pushed his glasses up his nose until he could feel the lenses brushing up against his eyelashes. There was no way  _ he’d _ ever eat something from the fairy world - or if he did, he’d pay them. Fairies only keep you if you owe them something, so you can’t ever let them get the upper hand.

Enjolras had a lot of opinions on fairies as a ten year old. He had even more as an adult.

\---

Enjolras shuffled around the apartment, confused and exasperated. You’d think he’d be better at keeping track of his glasses - you know, since he needs them to see and since he got his first pair in second grade, well over a decade ago - but alas. The glasses were nowhere to be found. This was a problem - he had contacts in his room, sure - but he needed his glasses to  _ eat _ .

“‘Ferre?” called Enjolras. “Do you know where my glasses are?”

There was no response. Enjolras heard the shower running. He went to investigate.

“‘Ferre?” said Enjolras, opening the bathroom door. There was a quiet shriek and the distinct sound of skin hitting tile.

“Enjolras,” said Combeferre from behind the shower curtain. “I am so, so naked.”

“I know that,” said Enjolras. “But I can’t find my glasses, so even if the curtain was drawn, I wouldn’t be able to tell.”

“Enjolras,” said Combeferre.

“Not that - I mean, I’m sure you’re a very attractive man, Combeferre -”

“I’m too naked for this,” said Combeferre. “Please go put in your contacts.”

“I need the glasses to eat,” said Enjolras.

“And you can’t wear contacts to look for them?”

Enjolras bit his lip. He hadn’t considered this, but he didn’t want to risk it. The contacts might interfere.

The shower shut off. A dark brown hand snuck out from behind the shower curtain. Enjolras put a bath towel into it.

“I know we have this conversation every time,” said Combeferre

“Please don’t,” said Enjolras.

“But,” said Combeferre, emerging from the shower wrapped in a burgundy towel. “I must point out  _ again _ that your most inconvenient compulsion is based on a children’s book you read when you were ten.”

“You say that like you don’t also love those books,” said Enjolras. Was he pouting? He felt like he was pouting He wanted to look in the mirror to check, but it was fogged with steam. He assumed. He really couldn’t see for shit.

“I do love those books,” said Combeferre. “I wouldn’t beta your writing for them if I didn’t -”

“You so would,” said Enjolras.

“But that doesn’t change the fact that this is excessive, Enjolras. You know you won’t get stuck in the fairy world if you eat with your glasses off,” said Combeferre.

“I know that,” said Enjolras bitingly. “I know that. I just -”

“Need to have control. I know.”

“The word ‘ _ irrational _ ’ is in my official diagnoses, like, four times. I know. I just - can you just help me find my glasses? We can talk about this later,” said Enjolras.

Combeferre nodded. He suddenly realized Enjolras probably didn’t even recognize the nod - it probably just looked like vague color movement.

“Sure,” said Combeferre. “Kitchen counter. I found them after you fell asleep at the table last night.”

Enjolras shifted his weight to the other foot.

“You know,” he said. “If you’d told me that at the beginning, I’d have left you alone.”

“Sue me,” said Combeferre. “For trying to talk sense into my best friend. Can you move now? I want to put some pants on.”

\---

Objectively, Enjolras can understand how unhealthy it is to live in a fictional world. For kids. He gets that. Like, if you say you spend all your time thinking about this other, fictional universe written for ages twelve and up, people start to look at you a little funny. They’d look at you even funnier if you told them that by “spend all your time thinking,” you really meant considering the possibility of  _ you _ being in that universe - not literally, just like, how would the characters like you? Where would you fit in? Could you save the world, too? Do you get to fall in love?

He knows, okay? He does. But that doesn’t stop him from imagining his final battle against the Fairy Queen of Ember as choreographed to  _ Come On Eileen _ , which he stuck on repeat on his iPod.

It took Grantaire three tries to get Enjolras to look at him. Enjolras, startled out of battle, dropped his mental sword and ripped the headphones from his ears.

“Yes?” he said irritably. Grantaire soured.

“Nevermind,” he said. “Christ.”

“No, what is it?” snapped Enjolras. “I’m sorry. I was - deep in thought.”

Grantaire looked at him. Enjolras hated that a little bit. Grantaire had watery eyes that, Enjolras suspected, could see through time. Like a Tralfamadorian.

“Here,” said Grantaire, and he shoved a packet of papers into Enjolras’s chest. Enjolras examined them.

“My homework?” he asked. “What -”

“You left it in the classroom,” said Grantaire. “Just trying to help a bro out, man. Didn’t want you to get to class tomorrow without having read  _ Harrison Bergeron _ for the thousandth time.”

“Thank you,” said Enjolras. He faltered. “You - you said  _ nevermind _ . Were you just going to take my homework?”

“We don’t know each other very well, but trust that I would leave no boundary uncrossed to be properly petty when you’re mean to me,” said Grantaire.

Enjolras laughed. One loud  _ ha _ . It caught Grantaire off-guard. He was looking at Enjolras like he’d grown a new head, and like the new one had bright red hair. Enjolras regretted laughing.

“Anyway,” he said. He held up the packet in thanks, and then he high-tailed it to his apartment.

\---

The problem was, he was having trouble writing anything other than  _ Four Corners _ fanfiction. He needed to churn out, like, twelve pages of  _ something _ to offer up for peer review tomorrow, and he had  _ nothing _ . He’d had a week to do it. At the time, he’d scoffed - Enjolras regularly wrote twelve pages in one sitting. This wasn’t anything he needed to worry about. Other classes - his polisci classes, or his math classes - needed to take priority this week. He didn’t need to spend eons writing and rewriting a short story that would probably only be seen by his review partner.

Only, now the story was due tomorrow. And he had nothing. No motivation to write - not unless it was  _ Four Corners _ fanfiction. He had this idea for an alternate universe where Rosemary had fallen into the Land of Ember instead of the Royal Lagoon. It could be pretty interesting, he thought. Half the reason Rosemary had wanted to stay in the fairy world instead of escaping had been that she loved the water - if she’d fallen into the dry, cracking earth of the Land of Ember, she might have felt differently. She might have tried to escape. She might have even fought on a different side in the war. Now, Enjolras wasn’t interested in writing stories that sympathize with  _ villains  _ \- media is and has always been a tool of control - but he might be able to write a story where Rosemary met up with Maude before the fourth book, by which point the war was already well underway.

(Maude, by the way, was a girl who had fallen into the Land of Ember a few years before Rosemary had fallen into the Royal Lagoon. Though they were technically the same age, Maude generally looked more waifish or possibly younger, the way that fairies do, or the way that humans who spend too much time in the fairy world do, and she had been there before the war started. She had watched things go from pleasant, intentionally peaceful, to a sudden arms race. Rosemary was smitten with her.)

No. Enjolras couldn’t be thinking about this. He couldn’t, because he had to write an  _ original short story _ , and he had to do it by morning.

He looked at the clock. It was approaching midnight.

“Ugh,” said Enjolras. He slumped down the couch until his entire torso was flattened against the seat and just his head stuck up against the back. “Ugh, ugh, ugh.”

“Writing?” asked Combeferre. He was reading a newspaper. Nonchalantly.

“Why did I take creative writing?” asked Enjolras. “Why did I do that?”

“I recall you saying something about improving your style and efficiency of writing for your followers,” said Combeferre.

“I hate calling them that,” said Enjolras.

“Fans?” asked Combeferre.

“Peers?” asked Enjolras.

“I don’t know if they count as your peers when your ages differ so strongly,” said Combeferre. “Or when they really are your fans.”

“I don’t -”

“What else would you call a large - and I do mean  _ large _ \- group of people who anxiously await your next update? People who love your work - you get fanart. People cosplay AU’s you come up with. I’ve seen your inbox,” said Combeferre. “I will never  _ unsee _ your inbox.”

Enjolras sat up correctly. “I can’t - I can only write  _ Four Corners _ . I need to have the beginning of a short story tomorrow, and I can only think about Rosemary and Maude.”

“Write something about them,” said Combeferre. “Thinly veiled. Change all the right things.”

“That’s too close to plagiarism for comfort,” said Enjolras.

Combeferre folded up his newspaper and tucked it under his arm as he stood up. He looked kind of like an asshole like this - glasses, sweater vest,  _ slacks _ \- he looked like the kind of person Grantaire would make fun of.

God. Grantaire was in his writing class. All peer editing was blind, which meant he ran the risk of being edited by Grantaire. He’d rather die. Enjolras was good at writing - he knew that. He knew he had this thing with words, this capability to warp them, and he knew other people didn’t have that. But Grantaire was just good at everything. He was an excellent writer. Enjolras was a talented writer. Grantaire was a talented  _ reader _ \- that produced something different.

“You need a break,” said Combeferre. “Let’s get waffles.”

“It’s about midnight,” said Enjolras. “This needs to be done by morning. I’m not hungry.”

Enjolras’s stomach growled. Traitor.

“Right,” said Combeferre. “Waffles. That nice breakfast place is still open now.”

“It’s a twenty-four hour  _ IHop _ ,” said Enjolras, but he closed his laptop and went hunting for his shoes. They were back by one thirty, and Enjolras cranked out fourteen pages of an original story that he didn’t trust, but that he supposed would do.

\---

Grantaire had read this before. Okay, not this exact story, but he knew this writing style. It was achingly familiar. He’d read something by this person before - if only he could figure out  _ what _ . It was too similar to have only been influenced, and he seriously doubted any published author who could write like  _ this _ would be taking a college creative writing course.

Grantaire’s eyes flicked around the room. It probably wasn’t Emily - she was smart, but her writing was more technical. She struggled to use metaphor the way this writer was doing it. It probably wasn’t Ahmed - he struggled to write anything that wasn’t high fantasy or magical realism, and this was very realistic. Contemporary. It was an expansion on a moment - very James Joyce in that way, except it wasn’t cluttered. It wasn’t a stream of consciousness.

It probably wasn’t Jason or Katie, and it certainly wasn’t Jared - they were all profoundly shitty writers. None of them could pull this off, not without plagiarizing.

None of them could pull off plagiarizing.

It  _ could _ be Enjolras - Grantaire had never read any of Enjolras’s writing. It seemed unlikely, though. Grantaire had found that conversations with Enjolras needed to be overwhelmingly straightforward. Enjolras was not about subtext. This story - this was all about subtext.

Grantaire shrugged to himself. Maybe it was different in writing than it was in speech.

It was probably Sarika - she had a phenomenal command of metaphor, though what she wrote was normally more abstract than this.

Whatever. All he knew was that he’d read this style before, and that it was  _ great _ .

\---

Enjolras didn’t know whos paper he’d gotten to edit, but it was probably Jared’s. He could hardly get through the first page before he had to put it down and do some breathing exercises. It wasn’t even that Jared displayed a clear lack of understanding of how to string words together - which he did - it was that this particular story was just mind-numbingly dull.

\---

When he got back to his room that night, Enjolras wrote twenty-four pages about Rosemary falling into the grassy Green Hills, where Maude had spent some time before the war. Good. It allowed Enjolras to have Rosemary meet Maude before the war and remove her from the Lagoon without being an Ember-apologist. He teetered back and forth. He could wait until morning and have Combeferre beta this - but he wasn’t sure it was worth it. He didn’t want Combeferre to waste his time editing something that shouldn’t see the light of day. He knew Combeferre would be happy to, but he also knew that Combeferre’s chemistry class was really ramping up the bullshit and that Combeferre was about to experience the wrath of a god in the form of his tiny, adorable chemistry professor.

He scanned over the pages quickly - not long enough to really be called  _ editing _ , but enough to check for grossly obvious mistakes, anything he might now think better of, and to decide whether or not he really wanted to do this.

He did.

He copied the whole document into the AO3 text editor. He checked off that the work was  _ not  _ yet completed. He made extra sure to include that this work had not been beta’d, that college is happening and that he didn’t want to burden his editor. He added a link to his Tumblr. He put out a plea for comments - he didn’t want to keep writing this if there was anything glaringly wrong with it, or if nobody wanted to read it. He didn’t want to clutter their feeds. He debated whether or not to tag it as  _ Rosemary/Maude _ . This would be in the second book - before the war, but while Maude lived in the Hills. They’d be around fourteen here. The way Enjolras wanted to take the story, they’d be past the last book - they’d be in their twenties. If he was going to pair them up, it wouldn’t happen until then, anyway. They had a war to fight, they didn’t need to get into a relationship.

Enjolras typed in the tag. He deleted it. He typed it in again. He added  _ slow burn _ to the tags list. He nodded to himself. He could already see the ending so clearly. He made a mental note to himself to finish his outline as soon as the work was uploaded.

He clicked the  _ preview _ button. He scrolled through it, checking for any obvious formatting errors. There were none. He clicked submit.

Forgetting the outline, Enjolras stuck his laptop on the floor. He took his contacts out. He went to bed.

\---

The next morning, Grantaire was pretending that he totally wasn’t reading fanfiction in a coffee shop. The chance that anyone in line behind him would recognize the AO3 layout on his phone was slim. And besides - if someone did recognize it, it meant that they  _ also _ had to read fanfiction. If they mentioned it to him, they’d be calling themselves out.

He moved up in line. Sometimes he wished it wasn’t, like, a weird thing to read fanfiction. He couldn’t see any problem with wanting more of a story once it was done.

The girls behind him were talking about some TV show he’d never seen. He thought about the time he’d gone to a local nerd convention a few years back, and he thought about the hilarious lack of respect for personal space anyone there had had.

Yeah, maybe he didn’t want anyone to know he was into fanfiction.

He ordered his coffee and - what the hell, he deserved it - a sugar cookie. It was shaped like a butterfly. While he was waiting for the coffee to brew, he scrolled through AO3. He refreshed the page. He wasn’t really feeling  _ Game of Thrones _ at the moment. Maybe he could read some  _ Star Trek _ fanfiction, or  _ Four Corners _ .

That was it. It had been awhile since he’d read any good  _ Four Corners _ fanfiction. And look! AO3 user revolutionaryApocalypse had uploaded a new work.

revolutionaryApocalypse was a fandom giant. Were those a thing? Grantaire sometimes had trouble telling, but listen - anyone who liked  _ Four Corners _ new about him. They all did. He’d written  _ Organic _ , a 165,000 word long fic about Harry, the unlucky prince of the Hills. Everyone had read it. Even more people had read  _ Thermodynamic _ , an epic of a fic about Rosemary and Maude in modern America. RevolutionaryApocalypse had been in the fandom just about as long as there had been a fandom, too. Their earliest work was published about four months after the first book went live. Doing the math - and everyone had, at some point or another - revolutionaryApocalypse would’ve had to have been, like, eleven when it was published. The whole thing was insane.

Grantaire clicked on it. It was one of those Other Land AU’s where Rosemary had fallen somewhere other than the Royal Lagoon. Canon divergence, starting in the second book. Grantaire had high hopes. You could always trust revolutionaryApocalypse to deliver a high quality fic.

He read the first paragraph. Something tickled at the back of his mind. He read the next few. He would never cease to be impressed with revolutionaryApocalypse’s ability to play with words. He read more. The barista called out his name. He almost didn’t notice - revolutionaryApocalypse had pulled a really interesting trick with the Tree Dwellers that Grantaire would’ve never thought of. He grabbed his coffee - hopefully the right cup, he hadn’t even looked up from his phone - and settled in one of the open armchairs. That was the  _ exact  _ kind of thing Maude would say. People were always writing Maude wrong. And  _ that’s _ what Rosemary would say in response! Sometimes people had Rosemary going too easy on Maude in their fics, but if you read the books, you’d see that they were actually quite biting with each other.

His coffee got cold next to him. He made displeased noises to himself when he got to the end and realized this was the first chapter, that the work was unfinished. He thought about commenting. He didn’t. He never had anything good enough to say. He couldn’t quite articulate how he felt about the story, but he hoped revolutionaryApocalypse would update, and  _ soon _ .

\---

He was halfway home, drinking his shitty, cold coffee, when he figured it out. A switch flipped upwards in his brain.  _ That’s _ where he knew the writing from. That’s why he recognized it in class - one of his classmates was a huge fucking nerd. Jesus Christ. Now he  _ had _ to know who wrote that story, if only to make brutal fun of them.

And to compliment their use of metaphor. Grantaire was never going to stop being amazed by their abilities with metaphor. And anyway - Grantaire had been reading  _ Four Corners _ fanfiction about as long as he’d know about fanfiction, which meant he’d been reading work by revolutionaryApocalypse for  _ years _ . He practically grew up with the guy. It was a crazy twist of fate that they ended up in the same place, in the same class. Or, was it? Really? RevolutionaryApocalypse was  _ somebody _ , at least in the world of  _ Four Corners _ . Grantaire was just some guy who, like a thousand others, read some fanfiction someone posted online, probably for a laugh. To revolutionaryApocalypse, Grantaire was nobody, and it didn’t matter if they were in the same class. Grantaire, when you boiled it all down, was  _ nobody _ .


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it has been just about seventeen years since ive posted anything lmao  
> sorry about that! ive been writing and rewriting, and ive gotten sort of embarrassed about my old writing? id like to go back and either rewrite or delete some of it - like caller id - but im not sure. in the meantime, heres the next chapter of the fanfiction au! unfortunately ive completely forgotten how to write enjolras, so please go easy on me jsjfdhlkjsdfg  
> for those of you who dont play dnd, the bag of holding is an item you can get thats sized approx. like a regular messenger bag, but can hold up to 500 pounds and is much larger on the inside than it is on the outside. you can really get messenger bags that say 'bag of holding' on them, and i want one really bad. my local board game place really does run monthly one shot dnd adventures, but ive never personally been - dming my own group is enough.

The morning after posting, Enjolras woke up and knew exactly where his glasses were. He could already tell that this day was going to be better than the previous one.

Without the impending doom of eating without his glasses, Enjolras went about his morning routine rather leisurely. He could take his time with his coffee this morning, and just thinking of that put him in a good mood. Combeferre was already in the kitchen by the time Enjolras got there. His glasses were perched politely at the end of his nose. When Enjolras came in, Combeferre peered at him over the limp edge of his newspaper.

“Good morning,” said Combeferre.

“Morning,” said Enjolras. “Do we have milk?”

“We always have milk,” said Combeferre.

“Do we have milk that isn’t expired?” asked Enjolras. He grabbed the coffee pot. Combeferre winced as Enjolras narrowly missed searing his hand on the burner.

“Probably not. Have you checked your messages this morning?” asked Combeferre.

Enjolras rummaged through the fridge. There was milk in there, but the expiration date was suspiciously soon.

“Not yet,” said Enjolras. He sniffed at the milk.

“Check your messages,” said Combeferre. He watched Enjolras smell the milk again. “You know, if you have to smell the milk more than once, you probably shouldn’t drink it. If you aren’t sure about whether or not milk is past good, you probably shouldn’t be drinking that milk.”

Enjolras snorted. About half of it was a laughter reaction to Combeferre. The rest was a gag reaction to the milk.

“I’ll check them,” said Enjolras. He chucked the milk in the trash. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Combeferre sipped his coffee.

“You’d tell me if something was wrong. You wouldn’t just tell me to check my messages if they were harbingers of doom, right?” asked Enjolras.

“Of course not. Drink some coffee, then check your messages,” said Combeferre.

“Which one?” asked Enjolras. He was holding up two mugs, one shaped like a frog and the other with his own face on it.

“Frog,” said Combeferre.

Once he was finally situated at the kitchen table, Enjolras pulled out his phone to find that he did not have a single missed call or unread text message.

“Are you fucking with me?” he asked pleasantly.

“Your  _ other _ messages,” said Combeferre patiently.

“Ah,” said Enjolras. “Why didn’t you say so? Let me get my laptop.”

“You’re killing me,” said Combeferre. “Are you avoiding checking your messages on purpose just to spite me?”

“It’s a perk,” said Enjolras. His chair squeaked as he pushed away from the table. Upon reaching his bedroom he found, embarrassingly, that he had neglected to plug his laptop in before falling asleep. He’d need to charge it for a bit before it would turn on, as is the way with laptops that are several years old. Bashfully, he returned to the kitchen.

“I didn’t do this on purpose,” said Enjolras.

“You’re killing me,” said Combeferre. “Check the comments on your phone. I’m begging. Politely, even.”

Enjolras nudged his glasses farther up his nose. Combeferre always thought it was endearing the way that Enjolras used his phone as though he were pushing forty, jabbing at it with his index finger only. Watching Enjolras make his way to the AO3 website in this fashion filled Combeferre’s chest with domestic joy.

“Oh,  _ fuck _ ,” said Enjolras.

“I know,” said Combeferre.

“In one night?” said Enjolras.

“I  _ know _ ,” said Combeferre.

“I need some coffee,” said Enjolras.

Combeferre gestured helpfully to where Enjolras had abandoned his coffee on the kitchen table mere minutes ago. Enjolras made helpless grabs towards it, apparently unable to divorce his eyes from his phone.

“The one time you don’t ask me to beta, huh?” said Combeferre cheerily.

“This is  _ insane _ ,” said Enjolras.

His inbox had blown up. He had, over the years, collected a significant number of comments on his work, but he had never received so many so quickly. Well over a hundred comment notifications were staring Enjolras in the face, and Enjolras was staring back, shell-shocked.

“Did somebody important reblog me?” asked Enjolras.

“I don’t know how to explain to you that  _ you _ are the ‘somebody important’ in  _ Four Corners _ fandom,” said Combeferre. “Or rather, I do, but I don’t have enough time to do it before I’ve got to leave for class.”

Enjolras glanced at the clock. “Shit,” he said. How could he be expected to go through his normal morning routine now? As far as he could see, his new life’s purpose was to read and respond to each and every comment left for him.

“I haven’t read it yet,” said Combeferre, standing up. “But I’ve read some of the comments. I don’t know what you wrote, but apparently it’s good.  _ Very _ good. Profound, even.”

“It’s  _ fanfiction _ ,” said Enjolras.

Combeferre shrugged. “It’s writing. It’s another story. Your writing can be profound  _ and _ based on something else.”

Enjolras bit the side of his thumb nervously. "It would be premature to freak out about this, right? I write fairly popular first chapters all the time.”

“I’ll get back to you once I’ve actually read the chapter in question,” said Combeferre. “I just wanted to see your face when you saw all those comments.”

“You’re a demon,” said Enjolras, nose still buried firmly in a sea of comments.

“Love you too,” said Combeferre.

Enjolras heard the door shut before he realized Combeferre was gone. The weirdest thing about Combeferre, Enjolras thought, was that he always got ready  _ before _ having coffee, and once he was finished he could just walk right out the door. Enjolras, on the other hand, preferred to take his time with coffee and breakfast, and rush through a shower and throwing things into his backpack in order to leave on time. Maybe it was an imperfect system - the important thing was that Enjolras got to spend an entire fifteen minutes with his coffee every morning, and a little thing like leaving on time wasn’t going to stop him.

\---

Well, Enjolras thought, he  _ had _ asked his readers to leave comments if they wanted to see more of that story. He just hadn’t anticipated that they would come out in full force. Normally he only got a few hundred hits on a chapter on the first night, and only ten percent of those hits left comments. Normally Enjolras woke up to ten or fifteen comments. It usually took a bit for his fics to pick up steam, even as popular in-fandom as he was.

Enjolras shifted uneasily in his seat. He hoped, desperately, that the person next to him was paying any attention at all to the lecture at hand. If they were, they probably wouldn’t notice anything that was open on Enjolras’s laptop, like his Tumblr inbox, or the working document for  _ Green Thumb _ . If Enjolras had thought  _ Green Thumb _ was a stupid name as he was posting it (and he had), it was nothing compared to how stupid he thought it was now. Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of anything better.

The caret in the document in front of him blinked at him uninvitingly. Somewhere off in the distance, his anthropology professor droned on and on about bones.

Enjolras ran a hand through his hair. This was  _ stupid _ . It wasn’t like he had never written a successful piece of fanfiction before! He had written hundreds of thousands of words that had been received well by other  _ Four Corners _ fans, and yet that blinking caret was an ominous green light at the end of the docks.

Resolutely, Enjolras resisted the urge to check his AO3 inbox for new messages. He closed all tabs except for his Drive document, a task which tugged at his heartstrings as he let go of such dear Google searches as “name of the blinking line in text document” and such YouTube videos as “howls moving castle theme 2 hours”. He wasn’t nervous because he had nothing to write, he was nervous because of the pressure so many comments had placed on him. If he could just ignore that, he could get to writing. It would be no problem - he had plenty to say.

Enjolras shifted in his seat once more, and then he started to type.

\---

_ “I just think swimming’s awful,” said Maude. “Aren’t you glad you landed here instead of the Lagoon?” _

_ “Yeah, I’m jazzed I landed in a big empty field instead of a waterpark,” said Rosemary. _

_ Maude wrinkled her nose. “Ugh, just think - all that  _ water _.” _

_ “You kiss your mother with that mouth?” said Rosemary, to whom insulting water was like insulting life. Insulting breathing. The way it moved, all it did - how could a person dislike water? _

\---

Grantaire was no Sherlock Holmes, but he was determined to suss out the closet nerd in his creative writing class if it killed him. He had even gotten to class early - as though that would have helped - and he sat in the far corner watching his classmates slowly stream in. They came in small groups as they so often did. Sarika came in with Dorothy, as usual. Jason and Katie came in together, with Jared trailing behind them. Enjolras came in alone.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Grantaire saw it - a messenger bag labeled  _ BAG OF HOLDING _ . That was nerd paraphernalia if Grantaire had ever seen it. His eyes flicked up from the bag to see it’s owner.

Cosette was a slight, reserved woman. She held everything delicately and moved quickly and quietly, the way people learn to do when they do not want to be seen. Her hair was blonde, but with unhidden brown roots, and she always dressed in multiple layers. Sometimes those layers were more sheer, more lightweight if it was hot outside, but there were always layers.

Grantaire had never looked at Cosette directly for longer than three seconds at a time, and he had never thought about her for longer than necessary to complete basic class functions. But that had all been before he had noticed her Bag of Holding.

His investigations had a target, and now all Grantaire needed was a way to slip  _ Four Corners _ into conversation. The trick would be doing it without revealing himself as a fandom person.

When class let out and Grantaire was free from the waking nightmare that was a critical literary discussion with his classmates, he nearly tripped over his own feet trying to catch Cosette on the way out the door. He regretted it immediately - he had obviously spooked her.

“Hi,” he said, trying to sound pleasant and un-flustered.

“Hi,” said Cosette, eyes wide.

“You’re blocking the door,” said Jared, looking as sour as ever.

“Oh, shit,” said Grantaire. He spun outside and around to Cosette’s other side. She was leaning just off the door frame, mostly against the wall. Jared muttered under his breath as he passed.

“So,” said Grantaire.

“Um,” said Cosette.

Grantaire stuck out a hand awkwardly. “I’m Grantaire.”

Cosette nodded. “I liked that short story you read last week.”

“Ah,” said Grantaire. He suddenly felt guilty for not paying much attention to her.

“Uh, I’m Cosette,” said Cosette.

“I know,” said Grantaire, because that didn’t make him sound like a stalker at all.

They stared at each other. Grantaire felt like he was dying under the pressure of unplanned social interaction. The uncomfortable, tense hold of Cosette’s jaw told him she was feeling the exact same way. Even so, Cosette was deeply charming up close. Something about her demeanor made Grantaire want to hold doors open for her.

“Um, I really liked the symbolism,” said Cosette. “In your story? It was very Greek.”

“ _ Thank _ you,” said Grantaire sincerely. He had worked really hard on that story, having been terrified to read in front of the class. The worst thing about creative writing as a class was that sometimes the professor made you read your creative writing in front of the class so people could critique you right to your face. “I appreciate that. Um, I just wanted to compliment your bag.”

“Oh?” said Cosette. She looked down at her bag as though she had forgotten which one she was using, even though she was holding the strap as it crossed her torso with both hands.

“Yeah, I played DnD in high school and I just - I thought it was cool,” said Grantaire.

“Thanks,” said Cosette. She breathed out as she spoke, clearly more comfortable now that they were talking about something that was effectively on her turf. “You don’t play anymore?”

“Not really,” said Grantaire. “We like, tried to Skype me in to the group when I moved for college, but it was just weird.”

“Oh, I had a group like that,” said Cosette. “It’s different if you’re  _ all _ on Skype, but if it’s just  _ one _ -”

“ _ Exactly _ ,” said Grantaire empathetically.

“You know,” said Cosette kindly. “I play in this monthly game at the board game place downtown, if you want to come. I mean, it’s open to anyone, and it’s just a bunch of one-shots, but like. If you’re interested in playing again, it might be nice.”

“I’d like that,” said Grantaire. He tucked a curl behind his ear. “Um, where is it?”

“It’s called the Musain,” said Cosette. “I could text you the address?”

Having exchanged numbers and parted ways, Grantaire felt solid about his  _ Green Thumb _ prospects. If she was nerdy enough to have a Bag of Holding and frequent the local board game emporium, she was certainly nerdy enough to write and publish fanfiction.

\---

Once he eliminated the majority of his distractions, the next chapter of  _ Green Thumb _ came with ease. Writing  _ Four Corners _ was always familiar to Enjolras. Writing it felt like the most natural thing he could do. He was deeper into these characters than he was into anything else. He knew them better. He could write  _ Four Corners _ in his sleep if he had to.

Knowing there were a few hundred people - a few hundred  _ extra _ people - waiting on this second chapter was making him nervous, though, and he needed to talk to Combeferre. On some level, it was silly. Enjolras knew he’d been a contextually popular writer for years, and during that time he had received thousands,  _ literally _ thousands of comments. He had gotten requests. Commissions. People did cosplays, people drew fanart, and when he was being honest with himself, Enjolras could understand what Combeferre meant when he said that Enjolras didn’t just have readers - he had fans of his own. It was just that he had rarely gotten so many comments in just a few hours .

He sent a brief e-mail to Combeferre describing his situation.  _ Combeferre _ , he wrote.  _ If you have the time, I’d like you to beta the chapter I’ve just written before I post it. Yours, Enjolras. _

“You know my room is right next to you, right?” said Combeferre, cracking Enjolras’s door open.

“I wasn’t sure if you were home. You always check your e-mail, though,” said Enjolras. “Come, sit.”

Enjolras was sitting cross-legged on top of his blankets, laptop sitting in front of him. He scooted over to allow Combeferre room. He tucked his legs under himself, too - it was only a twin.

“I read the first chapter today in between classes,” said Combeferre. “I understand the hype.”

“Really?” said Enjolras. “You didn’t think it was too heavy handed?”

“Maybe not heavy handed enough,” said Combeferre. “Good choice, picking the Hills.”

“I didn’t want to be an -”

“Ember apologist, I know,” said Combeferre. “Give me your laptop.”

Enjolras bit the side of his thumb as Combeferre read the chapter. It felt like he was onto something, somehow. Like he was on the edge of writing something really, really good.

“Hm,” said Combeferre.

“What?” said Enjolras.

“Nothing. Let me read,” said Combeferre.

“What, though?” said Enjolras.

Combeferre pointed at a line of dialogue. “Doesn’t that seem a little sweet for Rosemary?”

“She’s not  _ heartless _ ,” said Enjolras. “Just intense.”

“She didn’t warm up to Maude this fast in the books,” said Combeferre.

“Right, because of the Lagoon. She was already primed to fight a war when she and Maude met,” said Enjolras defensively. “They’re meeting in a neutral location. And let’s be honest, here - Maude has been Rosemary’s Achilles heel since the day they met.”

“Fair,” said Combeferre. “But I still think it’s a little much for a second chapter.”

“I will consider rewriting it,” said Enjolras tersely.

“Excellent,” said Combeferre. “Now let me read.”

Combeferre was an excellent beta. He edited Enjolras’s fanfiction the same way he would peer edit someone’s paper in a class. The whole production was fairly formal in that way - Combeferre would roll up his sleeves, read slowly and with care, and mark all of his thoughts and suggestions in a notebook to go through later. Enjolras tried to crane his neck to read what Combeferre was jotting down, but unfortunately Combeferre was right handed and Enjolras was sitting on his left. With some maneuvering, Enjolras caught a glimpse of what Combeferre had written.

“I am  _ not _ pedantic!” said Enjolras.

Combeferre snorted. “That’s the biggest lie I’ve ever heard.”

“I am  _ detail oriented _ . Precise, maybe,” said Enjolras.

“Pedantic,” said Combeferre. “Will you do me a favor?”

“Hm?”

“Can you go make me a coffee?” asked Combeferre.

“Do you want me to stop reading over your shoulder while you’re editing?” asked Enjolras.

“Well,” said Combeferre, coy as ever. “Yes, but I thought it might do you good to have something to do with your hands.”

He  _ was _ feeling restless. And argumentative. Enjolras was always restless and argumentative, but he became even more so when he was watching someone edit his writing. He had to be ready to defend all of his artistic choices. He rather liked being right.

“Cream or sugar?” asked Enjolras, already halfway to standing.

“Do we have anymore of that caramel creamer?” asked Combeferre.

“If we don’t, I’ll go get some,” said Enjolras.

Combeferre nodded. He didn’t need the caramel creamer that badly, but Enjolras had always liked going on walks when Combeferre was beta-ing. It was good to get out of his own head after writing a chapter. It got his mind off the editing, too. Thinking about someone reading his work in general didn’t make him feel like this, but the idea of someone editing - of a person specifically looking for things that were wrong or that needed to be changed - got him ready to fight. That said, Enjolras trusted Combeferre more than just about anybody, and he knew that this was the best thing for his writing. He  _ liked _ arguing, for God’s sake.

“If you stop to get us some Thai food, I’ll give you a twenty to pay for it,” said Combeferre.

“You can get it next time,” said Enjolras.

He picked up a pair of beat-up tennis shoes and thought about changing his pants. It didn’t seem very likely that he would run into someone important while running out to get coffee creamer and Thai food at eleven at night, but it was possible. If it happened, he didn’t really want to be wearing sweatpants.

“You’re overthinking it,” said Combeferre.

“How do you do that?” said Enjolras incredulously.

“Decades of exposure,” said Combeferre flatly. “Get mine with shrimp.”

“What do you think I am, some kind of idiot?” said Enjolras. He tugged his shoes on, hopping on one foot. “Like I’d forget to get shrimp.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave a comment if you liked it! or send me an ask on tumblr @putoriius! i honestly cant say when i think the next chapter of anything will be up, but with any luck it'll be soon.

**Author's Note:**

> peer recognition??? peer approval??? peer recognition??? peer approval??  
> really, let me know what you think! leave a comment!! or, if you dont want to leave a comment or if you just want to hang out, message me or send me an ask on tumblr @putoriius!!  
> enjolras's username comes from the following line in the brick: "One would have said, to see the pensive thoughtfulness of his glance, that he had already, in some previous state of existence, traversed the revolutionary apocalypse." i thought it was a good representation of enjolras as a character and also it sounds like the kind of nonsense an eleven year old trying to sound edgy might come up with, and im running with the idea that enjolras has been using this username Forever


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